


With A Little Help From A Hound

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fluff, Getting Together, Internal Monologue, Light Angst, M/M, Mentions Of Other Sherlock-Characters, Mycroft in Love, Mycroft is Sweet, Mycroft is a bit slow, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pets, Pining, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Prompt Fic, Sherlock in Love, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-09
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-13 16:30:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20177338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: After Sherrinford, the Holmes brothers have started to develop a better brotherly relationship. On a Saturday evening, Sherlock visits his brother, but he doesn't come alone - he brings John Watson's new dog and it turns this weekend into something Mycroft, secretly in love with his brother, hasn't expected.





	1. A Big Surprise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ContinentalBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ContinentalBlue/gifts).

> I changed the prompt of ContinentalBlue a bit: Maybe some established relationship with the boys being forced to take in a pet-- one loves it, the other hates it.  
This is not an established relationship fic - it had the potential to be a get together story and I couldn't resist that! I hope you don't mind! This is for you, my ever supportive friend!  
I'm not sure now if there will be smut. It has to develop!

“What… What is this?”

Sherlock sighed. “It's a dog, Mycroft. _John's_ dog. I told you I would bring him along!”

“Yes but… What _is_ this?”

The detective rolled his eyes. “He's a mastiff.”

“No, a monster!”

“Don't call him that! Mastiffs are very sensitive. Can we come in now?”

Mycroft made a step back, almost stumbling over his own feet when the huge dog jumped into his house and briefly sniffed at him. He couldn’t remember having ever seen such a giant dog. Why the hell had John Watson got a dog this size? He had a little child for God's sake! This beast could eat in one piece!

“Can you hold the leash?”

“What?”

Sherlock sighed. “Take the bloody leash. I want to take off my coat!” He let the bag he had also brought drop onto the floor.

With shivering fingers Mycroft took the black leather leash while finally closing the door. The dog looked up to him (and it didn’t have to look up all that much) and licked its soft-pink flews as if it was seeing something tasty. Its fur was very light brown and the huge eyes looked as if it was wearing makeup. It wasn't ugly, actually. Just… gigantic…

“This is Crocker by the way. Or Crock, if you prefer. Crockie, if you want to be exceptionally nice.”

“Huh?”

“His name! Dogs do have names, Mycroft. And he is named after some war hero, John Crocker, called 'Honest John'. Never heard of him but of course John, our John, would know that.”

_'Our John'_. Rather _Sherlock's_ John… Mycroft was aware they had been going through a very hard time after Sherlock's return from Serbia, and even more after Mary Watson's unlucky death. John had blamed Sherlock for it. And with some delay, Mycroft had got to know that he had got violent against his brother. If he had known that before Sherrinford, he might have played his cards there a little differently… But of course he knew Sherlock would have never shot John (and he had not shot Mycroft either after all). After this scene, he had been sure they would end up together and build an unconventional little family – Sherlock, John and baby Rosie. In the end everybody, including himself, had _[feared]_ expected the two men to become lovers since the day they had met, no matter which kind of infatuation he might have had with irritating Irene Adler (whom he had saved in the end, Mycroft was well aware of that).

But so far he had not seen any signs that his brother and the doctor had become more than they had always been – apart from the struggles they had gone through over the past couple of years. They still seemed to be just friends.

And to his never-ending surprise, Sherlock had reached out to him after the horrors of Sherrinford. Not only had he tried to soothe their parents when Mycroft had told them about Eurus. Two days later he had dropped by in the Diogenes for no apparent reason. He had texted him the next day, just to check on his well-being. And when Mycroft had suggested having dinner two weeks ago, he had immediately agreed. And like all their meetings and texting since Sherrinford, it had been very… nice. Until then, 'Sherlock' and 'nice' had been two incompatible words. At least in relation to him, Mycroft. But suddenly the snarky replies and the weight teasing had been gone. No breaking into his house. No hostility. It was almost as if Sherlock had started to… like him? Was that even possible?

Mycroft still thought it was too good to be true. But he was eager to take whatever he could get of this sudden offering of brotherly affection so he had invited Sherlock to come over this Saturday afternoon, for not doing anything in particular. It was great that he had agreed and that he was here. But…

“I had to bring him,” Sherlock said with a sigh when he realised his narrowed eyes. “John and Rosie and Mrs Hudson are visiting John's parents for the weekend. And when his father heard how big he is, he said he'd prefer if they didn’t bring the dog. And…” he added when Mycroft opened his mouth, “he can't be alone. He howls all the time and people think someone is being strangled in our flat.”

Who was even crazy enough to let such a monstrosity of a dog live in a small flat at all?! With two grown men and a baby! The flat had just been renovated and Mycroft could imagine how this huge dog would destroy it all again. Who needed a patience grenade with a pet like this?

“He's very gentle and he'll protect Rosie from every threat.”

Mycroft was close to rolling his eyes at Sherlock's pathos. “He rather looks as if he'd like her for dessert…”

“He is a gentle giant!” Sherlock glowered at him and rubbed the large pet's head. “Touch him, come on! He's so soft!”

“No, thanks. Well, let's go over to the living room then,” Mycroft said, giving in as he didn’t want to risk that Sherlock decided to leave. “Does he want some water?”

“I've brought his bowls and dogfood and a bottle.”

“I do have fresh water in my house!”

“Don't yell at me!” Sherlock shouted.

The dog growled. Mycroft made a step back. “Gentle giant, huh?!” He regretted his outburst of course but to imply he was so inhospitable that he wouldn’t even have water for a guest, no matter how furry and huge and dangerous… He didn’t want Sherlock to think of him like this.

Sherlock was busy patting the grumbling animal. And only now Mycroft registered what he was wearing – his purple shirt (which had become a bit tight around his increasingly broad shoulders) and rather tight black jeans… He was looking good… “Hush, Crockie,” Sherlock mumbled now. “He's just barking but not biting.”

“He didn’t bark.”

“I was talking to _him_! About _you_!”

Mycroft suppressed a sigh and kept his eyes from rolling once more. He had been out for spending a few nice hours with his suddenly benevolent brother after all. No need to risk their newfound truce by making a fuss about this menace on four giant paws. “Well then. Water for him. Tea and biscuits for you?”

Sherlock's eyes brightened up. “Ginger nuts?”

“Yes, of course. Ginger nuts.” Some things never changed. Sherlock had loved these dry biscuits since he'd been three years old.

“Great. He loves them, too!”

Mycroft wasn’t surprised. If he had known about their special guest, he would have bought a full ton of them…

*****

“Um… That's my chair…”

Sherlock sighed. “You have a large couch, don't you. Just sit next to me then.”

“But he has claws and…”

“They are very short. Don't you have a blanket or something we can put under him?”

Mycroft had no idea how exactly anyone should put anything under this dog the size of a small pony that seemed already very content with having occupied his favourite armchair. But if Sherlock wanted to try… “He won't bite you if you do that, will he?” he cautiously asked.

Sherlock smiled for the first time since he had shown up. “No. I told you. He's as soft as a lamb.”

“Even though he's as big as an ox.”

Sherlock even chuckled. “He isn't though. He has yet to be castrated.”

Mycroft had noticed. It was impossible to not notice. Everything about this animal was huge… It was embarrassing to look at. And even more embarrassing to talk about it with his brother. His _brother_… He seemed to have forgotten lately that this was what Sherlock actually was. His little brother. Off limits. Hands and eyes off. Thank God Sherlock hadn't noticed it when he had looked at him in a not quite so brotherly way lately. He hadn't, had he? No. He wouldn’t be here if he'd had…

“A blanket he should get,” he mumbled now and hurried to fetch it.

The dog was drinking water from its bowl on the living room floor when he returned. Crocker was drinking surprisingly civilised. Not making a mess. Not that this wouldn’t have been dramatic. It was just water after all.

“I could put it on the floor,” he said hopefully, raising the soft item of comfortability.

He wasn’t surprised when Sherlock shook his head. “No. He wants to sit in your chair. But you should have brought something older and less expensive.”

“I do not _own _anything like this,” Mycroft couldn’t help but retorting in a quite piqued tone. Damn, Sherlock could still wind him up so easily…

Sherlock just grinned. “I knew you'd say that.” He took the blanket from Mycroft's hands and arranged it in the armchair. As soon as he had built a nice cushion, Crocker jumped up and made himself comfortable. “See, he loves it!”

“So do I,” Mycroft grumbled, more for entertaining Sherlock than because he was really upset.

Sherlock sat down on the couch and patted on the space next to him. “Nothing wrong with the couch. Come on.”

That was true except… What was wrong with it was that it was too close. Too close to him…

Mycroft felt his cheeks flush. “I have to take care of the tea. Will be right back.”

“I can help you.”

What wouldn’t he have given to hear these words from him almost all their adult life? Sherlock, offering his help, his support, his affection? It might seem silly to interpret his words like this when he didn’t offer anything else but assistance in boiling water and putting cups onto the table but Mycroft could see and hear that Sherlock had started to grow fond of him, which was a true miracle, especially after his failures regarding Eurus and handling the situation in Sherrinford. He appreciated it whole-heartedly. Of course Sherlock's sentiments for him (and he would have certainly never thought that his brother could have any sentiments for him apart from contempt maybe) were entirely innocent and he was not supposed to ever forget this! But that his little brother seemed to genuinely like him, even when he was behaving in a rather, well, prissy way, meant so much to him. In the end Sherlock could have brought an entire pack of horrifying hounds and Mycroft would have provided them with every blanket they needed…

He cleared his throat. “Thank you, but I'll be back very soon. I have prepared everything already.”

“Of course you have,” Sherlock said with a nod and it didn’t sound condescending or mocking but rather admiring.

_God I love you_, shot through Mycroft's brain and he blushed severely now and turned after making a strangled little noise that made the dog lift its large head before fleeing into the kitchen.

_Stop being such an idiot!_ he told himself while he was filling the kettle with shivering fingers. _He may never know what depraved feelings you have developed for him, or you will destroy everything!_

He took a deep breath and opened the package with the ginger nuts. They would spend some nice hours together. And if the dog peed on his chair or ate it, so it had to be. He would calm down and be the perfect host and stop complaining about the monster and forget that he had fallen in love with his own baby brother.


	2. Teatime

"So... How old is he?"

Sherlock gave the quiet dog a fond glance. "They assume about two years. Not much more than a baby." He put another ginger nut into his mouth. The dog had eaten two and seemed content with this.

"Does that mean he'll still grow?!"

Sherlock laughed. "No, I don't think so. But you should see him in the park. He loves chasing for balls and sticks."

"Doesn't he just gobble them down?"

"Surprisingly not. They are rather wet when he gives them back but they are still intact."

Mycroft shuddered at the thought of taking a dog-drool-dripping ball into his hand.

Of course Sherlock didn't miss it. "We could go to the park with him later and I'll show you."

Mycroft couldn't help but smile after a grimace. "Why not. I'm sure he'll want to take a walk and play. Where does he come from?"

"A shelter. Nobody wanted him because he's so big. His owner had left him bound to a post." Sherlock's face darkened when he said this and Crocker made a pitiful noise as if he had understood and recalled having heartlessly been abandoned.

"This is horrible," Mycroft said honestly. "I'm glad he's found a good home."

Sherlock smiled at him and if he had asked Mycroft now to adopt Crocker's bigger brother, he would have agreed just to see this smile again. "Yeah, Rosie loves him. John too. And Mrs Hudson makes strange noises when she sees him."

Mycroft could imagine this. She did it when she saw him, too, calling him a 'reptile' for example... Surely Sherlock's landlady was a lot nicer to this dog. It belonged to the weird Baker Street family. He didn't, and he never would. He realised that Sherlock was watching him with an indescribable expression and changed the subject. "Will you visit Eurus next week?" Not that this subject wasn't touchy. He would never understand why Sherlock wasted his time going to Sherrinford to play the violin with their depraved sister. At least she had shut up now and would never be able to manipulate anyone again; she was observed 24/7 now and she didn't talk anymore. When Sherlock came along, she smiled and played duets with him, and that was it. Mycroft always watched the recording straight afterwards and of course he had told the new guards to keep a very close watch at the monitors when Sherlock was alone with her. He would never risk any more harm to his brother, especially not by their evil sister.

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe. If you don't mind?"

"Why would I? And you never asked me this before."

"I should have though. It was _your _life she's threatened. Don't think I've forgotten about this."

Mycroft swallowed. He had to admit he had been rather hurt that Sherlock wanted to bond with their sister after all that had happened. "If you think it gives her anything. Or you... All I care about is your safety."

Sherlock gave him another warm smile. "She won't harm me. And we're never unsupervised."

Indeed. Not like Eurus and Moriarty all those years ago... What a great decision this had been... He really wondered why Sherlock bothered with _him_... Obviously Sherlock was exceptionally forgiving towards both of his crazy siblings. So why should he complain about him going to Eurus? "I hope so," he mumbled. "Nothing may happen to you."

He had never come so close to telling Sherlock what he meant to him. Well, that wasn't quite true but last time he had been drugged. By Sherlock... _Your loss would break my heart…_ It had been as embarrassing as it had been (and still was) true.

"Any interesting cases lately?" he changed the subject again. He hated that their conversation was so stilted but how could it not be? Sherlock had erased all fond memories of their childhood and would probably never bother to remember them, and Mycroft couldn't give his feelings away. But he did crave for more… intimate conversations.

_And not only conversations, right? _He immediately silenced the mocking inner voice and hoped his blush wasn’t too visible.

"Not really. Oh, hello." Sherlock smiled at the dog that had jumped down from Mycroft's chair surprisingly elegantly and came over to them. “Want another ginger nut?”

Mycroft winced when he picked one and held it out with his fingers, seeing the dog devour his entire hand with blood splattering everywhere in his mind's eye. But the dog took the goody very gently and swallowed it in one piece, looking out for more.

“That's enough,” Sherlock told him and then he turned to Mycroft. “He won't bite me. Or you if you give him something. He lets Rosie ride on him! He loves that. And Rosie loves it, too.”

He said it with a lot of fondness and Mycroft suddenly felt very sad. Sherlock didn’t need him. He was here because he felt pity for him, the lonely middle-aged man who would never have anyone by his side. And how could he if the only man he'd ever wanted there was his own little brother? If he was honest with himself, he had to admit this had happened long ago. It had just been easier to ignore it when Sherlock had been hostile towards him, not sitting right next to him, smelling delicious and being kind and hopelessly beautiful…

“Would you like more tea?” Sherlock asked him with a smile.

_No, I want **you**!_ For a horrible second he feared he had said this out loud and then he would have had to strangle himself but of course he hadn't said anything at all. Not trusting his own voice, he nodded, and Sherlock filled his mug again.

“John is eagerly looking for a woman now,” he said casually.

“Huh?”

“Well, he still misses Mary of course but he doesn’t want Rosie to grow up without a mother.”

“Oh,” Mycroft said rather dumbly.

“Mrs Hudson, the silly old girl, still thinks we'll get together,” Sherlock said with a shake of his head. “As if she shouldn’t know better by now.”

“Silly, yes,” Mycroft hurried to agree, feeling stupidly lighter even though he had just thought that the Baker Street boys appeared to still be just friends. And in the end it didn’t change the fact that Sherlock had all he needed at home.

“He's not my type anyway.” Sherlock sipped at his tea.

“Your… type.” And suddenly Mycroft grew cold, recalling this moment in Sherrinford when Eurus had forced Sherlock to get an _'I love you'_ out of the silly Molly Hooper. Of course everybody knew that she loved his brother but she had told him to say it first, and he'd had. Twice! What if he had meant it?

“I'm rather going for the tall, dark and handsome type of man,” Sherlock added. “Would you like a ginger nut, too? I didn’t see you eating any of them.”

So not Molly. And not Irene. Why was this such a relief? It wasn’t his business whom his brother would fall for in the end. Sherlock was still a virgin he was sure but now that he'd had become so emotional he would probably be open for a relationship. He was so handsome… Mycroft couldn’t imagine any gay man who _wouldn’t _want him. He stuffed the biscuit Sherlock was offering him into his mouth, chewing grimly. He didn’t even want to imagine Sherlock with anybody else. It would _kill_ him…

“What do you think – shall we go outside a bit and get something for dinner? We could cook together.”

Mycroft gaped at him. “You want to… cook with me?” He wouldn’t have thought Sherlock would even want to stay with him for so long.

Sherlock shrugged. “I've become quite a good cook over the past months. And it could be fun.”

If he had suggested catching some passer-by on the street and put him into the oven, Mycroft would have agreed equally eagerly. “Of course we can do that. And there is a nice park a few streets away.” Sometimes he did go there on a lazy Sunday afternoon. A lonely one, to be precise. He tried to keep away from the other people there of course. Or he imagined he was one part of a couple there, the other one being Sherlock. How pathetic… He shook the thought off. “Crooker might like being there.”

“Crocker, Mycroft.”

Damn! He was such an idiot! “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Sherlock smiled at him so brightly that it would have lightened up London during a total blackout. “No worries. I'll get his water bottle and then we can go.”

“I need to… go… to… um…” Mycroft blushed like a fool. He wasn’t five years old, was he?

Sherlock spared him to speak it out and he didn’t tease him to his relief. “Of course. Take your time. Nobody is awaiting me anywhere.”

“What if Lestrade calls with a case?” Would Sherlock go then and leave the dog with him?

“He will have to wait,” Sherlock said simply as if it was the most natural thing in the world for the famous consulting detective to neglect an exciting case for an afternoon (and evening!) with his boring brother and a dog. But of course this was totally theoretical. If Lestrade really offered him a _9_ or _10_ case, he would certainly forget this at once and Mycroft and the dog would only watch with sad eyes flapping coat tails disappear.

Mycroft nodded at him and hurried to go to the bathroom, unable to not looking forward to the rest of the day spent with his lovely brother (and the dog, yes), and perhaps he was lucky and nothing would make Sherlock go away – no case and not his own stupid behaviour.


	3. A Walk In The Park

Mycroft was a bit shocked how crowded the park was on this Saturday afternoon. The weather was quite nice, which in England meant it wasn't raining, and there were people everywhere. Having little children on their arms, holding hands, playing with their dogs. A normality that was so far away from his own life that he could as well have been on another planet… But hey, at least there was a dog in his company!

A dog that got very excited when he saw all the other furry fellows running around. He started to pull at the leash and Sherlock proceeded to take it off.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Mycroft asked. “What if he bites another dog? Or runs over a toddler?”

Sherlock gave him an indulgent look. “He loves all other dogs. And he lives with a toddler. He's a lamb. You'll see.” And he let the dog run and not even twenty seconds later, Crocker was playing with a poodle and a spaniel-mix, and their owners, having looked a tad frightened in the beginning, were all smiles very quickly.

Mycroft and Sherlock sat down on a bench – after Mycroft had tried to clean it with a handkerchief. “I do not like to sit on dirty surfaces,” he told Sherlock with dignity when his brother watched him with a smirk.

“Of course you don't.”

Mycroft felt a bit out of place in his suit. He should have changed clothes. Who went to a park in a designer suit? On a Saturday? Nobody except for him… Sherlock looked so much more fitting in his jeans. And he was getting longing looks from all the mums around them. Of course he did. And he was paying no attention to them.

When his two new friends left with their owners, Crocker came to them and Sherlock started to throw the ball for him. “I regained a lot of memories lately,” he said after having let the dog chase after its toy for the seventh time.

Thankfully he had not asked Mycroft to take it. It really didn’t look very hygienic when Crocker spat it out…

“About Victor?” Mycroft asked. “Or Eurus?”

Sherlock nodded. “About them, too. But I meant… about us.”

“Oh…” Mycroft did have many memories of their childhood. Well, of course he had already been seven years old when Sherlock was born. He had almost been a teenager before Sherlock had started to become this exceptionally bright child, and soon after Sherlock had turned into an introverted, sulky boy after losing his only friend and forgetting about him as well as their sister.

“You taught me to eat properly, to walk, to talk, to think,” Sherlock said. “You taught me everything.”

Could he even remember this time? After suppressing every memory from his sixth year on? But he was right. Mycroft, a proud big brother for this beautiful boy, had eagerly and, yes, lovingly helped him to develop every capability he would need. He had not been this kind of brother for Eurus, he admitted it. She had just been… not that important to him. He had been angry that their mother got another child. He had only wanted his little brother.

“I did my best,” he mumbled. “And then Victor moved into the neighbourhood and you were inseparable.” He hadn't liked that any better than Eurus had. She had been so jealous even though Sherlock hadn't shown much interest in her in the first place. Perhaps, if he and Sherlock had been a bit nicer to her… No. She had been born that way – cold and merciless and inhuman.

“I've always looked up to you.”

“You certainly did for a while,” Mycroft said. “When Victor disappeared, died as we know now for sure, you retreated into yourself. And then I had to leave home.” For grammar school (after being taught at home at first), for uni, and then for his job. It had been the final nail into the coffin of their brotherly relationship. All that had happened after it had been trouble, drama, resentment and estrangement. He had always tried to be there for Sherlock but he had failed miserably. He hadn't been able to keep him from taking drugs. He had not saved him from being hurt so many times. And lately he had almost caused him to die at the hands of the sister he had allowed him to forget. He was such a failure as a brother, and above all he was a brother who felt for him like no brother should do.

“I never truly forgot how close we were,” Sherlock said calmly after throwing the ball once more. “I… resented you for leaving home, which was stupid to say the least. It's just life. You had to go.”

“I never stopped thinking about you.” In a brotherly way, at this time. “I wrote you letter after letter…”

“And I never answered. I'm sorry, Mycroft. I was a rubbish little brother.”

Mycroft was taken aback. “No, Sherlock. It was my fault.”

Sherlock gave him a sad smile. “You always think everything is your fault. But it isn't. It was my choice to start taking drugs to numb my brain. It was my choice to risk my life with dealers and cases and assassins. And Eurus has always been doomed. You thought her in capable hands. They failed, not you.”

It meant so much to him to hear these words from his brother. Of course Sherlock was not entirely right; a lot of this _was _his fault. But that he chose to forgive him and even denied to blame him… It was more than he had ever expected. “Thank you,” he brought out. “This is… Oh!”

Crocker had come back and spat out the ball once more. But instead of pushing it towards Sherlock with his nose like before, he had taken Mycroft's hand into his large snout. It felt hot and wet and strange and there were sharp teeth, but that wasn't what made Mycroft's heart hammer. It was the fact that Crocker put his hand onto Sherlock's thigh.

“Um, dog! What are you doing?” he asked, embarrassed, while Sherlock was bursting out laughing. “Bad dog!” The animal let go of his hand and he hurried to take it away from Sherlock's leg. He could still feel the rough fabric of his jeans on his palm – and the warmth of Sherlock's body beneath it.

“Nah, he's not.” Sherlock rubbed the dog's head. “Come on – touch him. You'll like it.”

Hesitantly Mycroft reached out and put his fingers onto the massive head, carefully stroking it. He couldn’t remember when he had last touched any kind of pet. Sherlock was right – the fur was very soft and silky and it felt very nice. The dog looked at him with this melting look dogs were so famous for, and Mycroft caught himself smiling at him. He wasn't so bad after all.

“See. I told you,” Sherlock said, and the fondness in his voice made Mycroft's heart jump.

He had to be careful. He couldn’t give his true feelings away. Sherlock would hate and despise him if he knew and he could never risk that.

“I think he has enough. Shall we do some shopping now and go home?”

Home… How nice this sounded. Mycroft would give his right arm to have his brother living with him. Or even staying with him as often as possible. But of course this was just a mad wish of a man who wasn't able to keep his feelings under control. Sometimes caring was not only not an advantage. Sometimes it was dangerous.

“Yes. We…” He broke off when Sherlock bent down to pick up the soiled ball. His bottom… It was a sight to pass out about… And he felt his cheeks burn when he saw that Sherlock was looking at him.

But his brother had obviously not noticed the way Mycroft had ogled his… backside. Thank God. Sherlock would never even consider him feeling like this about him. He could be very glad about it.

And then Sherlock put the dog back on the leash, and when they had made a few steps away from the bench, Crocker walked around them, trapping them, making them stumble and hold onto each other to not fall onto the ground.

“Crock!” Sherlock howled with laughter. “Naughty boy! Let us go!”

Mycroft was not able to say anything, having frozen in horror. He was pressed against his brother's lean, deliciously smelling body and all he could think was, _'Don't let him notice my condition!'_

Sherlock managed to free them within a few seconds that seemed like ages to him, and he stepped away from his brother with a hammering heart and a cock that was straining painfully against his flies, and the dog was looking… smug? and walked on as if nothing had happened. Could a dog look smug at all?

“Coming?” Sherlock asked him with a bright smile and Mycroft thought, _'Almost'_ and followed him with burning cheeks and a rather horrible feeling about the prospect of the next few hours spent with his alluring brother and this hellhound.


	4. Dinner

“You really are a good cook,” Mycroft said after swallowing a delicious fork of pasta.

“Don't tell Mrs Hudson. It's very convenient if someone prepares your meals for you because they are not your housekeeper but think you'd starve otherwise,” Sherlock said with a wink. “But cooking together with somebody is fun, too.”

It really had been. Mycroft had never done that before but they had become a team within an instant, preparing a vegetarian meal side by side. They had made so much that they would have something for the next day as well, Sherlock had remarked. Mycroft had been and was still stunned. Sherlock really wanted to come back to share the leftovers with him? Or… did he even plan to stay overnight?

“It's raining quite badly now,” Sherlock stated. The dog, lying next to his chair after gobbling down his nastily smelling food in the kitchen, made a snorting noise as if to comment about the rain and the wind.

Mycroft had not even noticed the change of weather; too focused he had been on his brother and his way of putting the spaghetti onto his fork. It looked so cute… And when he put them into his mouth… His beautiful mouth… But now Mycroft glanced at the window and wondered how he could have missed the pouring rain. “Oh, that looks nasty. I can prepare a guest room for you if you prefer to not go outside again.”

_Sure. Just for him, right? It has nothing to do with you not wanting him to leave!_

“That would be most convenient, thank you, brother mine.”

Sherlock smiled at him and Mycroft caught himself smiling back like a fool. He cleared his throat. “And the dog…”

“Oh, he can sleep on the blanket next to my bed if you don't mind?”

Of course Mycroft didn’t. He would have to wash it anyway even though he assumed the dog smell would never disappear again. “Fine.” Sherlock would sleep under his roof. A few rooms away but still… It was wonderful to have him here. He could really get used to it. Not that he would be allowed to.

“What do you think of the new PM?” Sherlock asked him after using his tissue.

“Oh, not after eating!” Mycroft groaned and Sherlock laughed out loud.

The dog raised its head and barked for the first time and Mycroft couldn’t help but laughing, too.

*****

When they had taken care of the dishes, they went to the living room once more. Crocker didn’t make an attempt at jumping onto 'his' chair but Mycroft still sat down on the couch after pouring them a glass of whiskey each. The dog didn’t get any of course.

Mycroft was hyper aware of Sherlock's presence when his brother took a seat next to him, closer than before.

“What do you think,” Sherlock said after sipping at his drink with an appreciative eye-roll, “shall we visit our parents someday soon?”

Mycroft nodded hesitantly. They had seemed to have forgiven him for his lies about Eurus when they had met in Sherrinford to listen to Sherlock and her playing the violin. He wanted to repair his relationship with them further. But on the other hand he didn’t want to spend, no, waste time with them he could spend alone with his brother now that they had started to get so comfortable around each other.

“It doesn’t have to be a full weekend,” Sherlock said softly, and for a moment Mycroft had the weird suspicion Sherlock had read his mind.

But if he had, did he know why Mycroft wasn’t that fond of the idea to spend time in the countryside with Mummy and Father? Of course not. In the end neither of them had ever been keen on keeping up with their parents, which was only natural.

He nodded. “We can do that.” He didn’t specify when… For Christmas, maybe. Next year. Or the year after…

“We could bring Crocker,” Sherlock said. “If they get nasty to you again, we'll tell him to eat them.”

Mycroft huffed out a rather shocked laugh before he shook his head. “I don't blame them for their harsh words, Sherlock. I deserved them.” It had been a rather painful conversation. But Sherlock had been on his side and that had counted the most.

“I do in fact think that you did not,” Sherlock replied calmly. “It was not your decision to deceive them. You were still a child! It was Uncle Rudy's choice and you just continued what he had started. And if you ask me, you were right about it.”

Sherlock's opinion mattered very much to him, naturally. More than their parents' thoughts for sure. He wasn’t that convinced that it had been the best idea though. But he was not naïve. He didn’t actually believe their parents' possible affection for Eurus would have prevented anything she had decided to do. It had not changed anything when she had been five. She was a psychopath but she wasn't psychotic. She had made her choices deliberately. Perhaps, just perhaps, if Sherlock had not forgotten about her and had been a brother for her, which she had after all craved with her games in Sherrinford and Musgrave, she wouldn’t have become so murderous. But who knew? And if he was honest he wished Sherlock would have never had a reason to remember her. She had tainted his life with her deadly games and her unwelcome obsession with him. Sherlock didn’t need her.

_He doesn’t need **you** either, but here he is!_

That was true of course. But he had never intended to harm his brother. His wellbeing had always been his priority. Except…

“There's something I should have told you some time ago, Sherlock,” he said without taking the time to think about it.

“What? I have another murderous sibling I've forgotten about?” Sherlock said it with teasingly raised eyebrows but there was a sincere undertone. Perhaps he didn’t even rule out that this could be true…

Mycroft smiled only briefly. “God forbid… About your mission. After you… After the Magnussen affair.” After Sherlock had cold-bloodedly murdered someone. For John Watson, of course. His wife, actually, but it always led to John in the end.

“Oh. The death mission.” Sherlock nodded, his face not giving any feelings away now.

“I was terrified. About what you did right in front of my eyes.”

Sherlock bit his lip. “You were afraid I'd turned out to be like Eurus.”

That was part of the truth. But if Mycroft was honest, he had known Sherlock didn’t have anything in common with her. He hadn't killed this man for fun and entertainment but out of sentiment for John and Mary Watson. Which was the other part of the truth. Mycroft had hated that. He had hated that Sherlock was so fond of these people that he was willing to throw his life away for them. His reputation. And of course there was the little fact that in the go he had betrayed the country and drugged him, Mycroft. Everything for John at the end of the day. “I knew you were not. Not nearly. But you didn’t show any remorse. I had to…”

“…punish me?”

Close enough, wasn’t it? “I couldn’t let you off the hook so easily.” Even though in the end he'd had. They had needed Sherlock so all at once there had been an easy solution – manipulating the video, pretending it never happened like it had. Pretending Magnussen's death had been some sort of accident and Sherlock hadn't fired at him. “I also thought you'd go to prison. And I knew you wouldn’t survive that. But what I actually wanted to tell you and should have made clear already: I never planned to let you die on this mission. I would have got you out. Definitely.” He had to tell Sherlock. He should have told him months ago.

Sherlock gave him a deep look. “I knew that. I knew you wouldn’t let me down. No matter that I deserved it.”

“You didn’t. He was an evil man. I should have taken care of him before. You were right.”

And then he gasped when Sherlock slung one arm around his neck and pressed him. “Thank you. And I'm sorry for twisting your arm and for drugging your punch and stealing state secrets.” His breath was hot against the side of his face.

Mycroft let himself slump into the tight embrace for a moment, enjoying it, savouring it. “It's all right. I know you thought you had to do this, and when you… did this thing with my arm, you were drugged. But please – if you're in such a situation again, talk to me. I know you tried and I refused to help you. That will never happen again.”

“I won't do anything like this again.” Sherlock pulled back and for a moment Mycroft saw such deep affection in his brother's stunning eyes that his heart missed a beat.

“Good,” he brought out and then Crocker's paws were on Sherlock's knees and he lapped over his face.

“Ugh,” Sherlock made and giggled and pushed him away. “What are you doing?”

And a moment later it was Mycroft's turn to get a very wet kiss from a very big snout and a lick from an exceptionally wet, hot tongue, and when he reached up to his face to get rid of the dog saliva, Crocker pulled back and sat down, looking from one man to the other and huffed out a short and somehow impatiently sounding bark.

“I don't know what you mean,” Sherlock said to him and Mycroft could have sworn the dog was rolling its eyes.

For a split second Mycroft thought _he_ might know what this had been about but he immediately pushed the thought aside. This was crazy. Crocker was a _dog_! He didn’t do such things on purpose. Probably he was just bored.

“We should play with him again,” he suggested. Perhaps a few antique items had to be put away before throwing a ball through the room but who cared?

But the dog just looked at him as if it was disappointed, grunted and jumped into the chair that had once been Mycroft's, resting its large head on its paws.

Sherlock grinned and shook his head. “You're a bit mad, you know that, Crockie?”

Perhaps he was. But not as mad as _Mycroft_ was, who was hopelessly in love with his own baby brother and had just seriously considered the dog had tried to let them know they should _kiss_.


	5. Nightly Confessions

“Oh, it's already midnight,” Sherlock stated, and Mycroft was surprised to see he was right.

The time had passed so fast. They had talked and talked for hours. Sherlock had apologised for a few more things and Mycroft had whole-heartedly assured him that he shouldn’t bother. Of course they had been estranged for so many years. Of course he had been hurt by Sherlock's rejection many times. But in the moment Sherlock had turned the gun from him to point it at himself (and Sherlock had explained to him weeks ago that he had never meant to fire at him and just waited for the right moment to turn Eurus' game against her) and had made clear that in some way he did care for Mycroft, this had all been so unimportant.

Mycroft had never really resented him for it in the first place. Jokes about his diet, refusing to help him with matters of national importance, giving a memory stick with classified information to Jim Moriarty (and giving it back to him when the consulting criminal had refused it), breaking into his house to scare the living hell out of him – what had it ever really mattered? Sherlock had been the most important person in his life, always, no matter how he had been behaving towards him. And in the end it had been Mycroft who had caused the mayhem Moriarty had brought over Sherlock's life by allowing him to speak to Eurus. In all these years he had never stopped loving Sherlock, and this love had turned into something else against his will; he would always have to hide this. But he didn’t want to hide how important Sherlock was to him.

And they had ended up talking about a lot of other things. Sherlock's relationship with the doctor, how much he adored Mrs Hudson and that he could finally remember Lestrade's first name now (which had made Mycroft stupidly jealous for a moment but then he had recalled that the inspector was totally straight and married and that he might be considered 'handsome' in a way but was neither overly tall nor dark-haired anymore). He had spoken about cases and frustration and how he relaxed while playing the violin.

Mycroft had told him about his days in the office and how he was annoyed by Lady Smallwood's stubborn advances, which she still hadn't dropped even though he had told her he wasn't interested during their one and only meeting for a drink. He had been tactful and polite and everything to not risk their work relationship, and Sherlock had dryly remarked that he had probably been a tad too soft towards her then, and they had both chuckled about this.

They had discussed literature and the stupidity of the PM and Eurus surveillance, and not once they had rowed, not once had Sherlock been condescending towards him or complained about him being overprotective and boring. Mycroft had been hanging on his every word and caught himself staring at his beautiful lips and forgetting to blink when he had looked into those stunning eyes, and they had smiled at each other, and in short, it had been a wonderful evening.

And now it was time to go to bed. It felt like a loss to let Sherlock go into the guest room he had prepared for him – which had its own bathroom attached to it – but at least Sherlock wouldn’t leave his house until the next day, and he would even stay for lunch! This weekend was heaven.

Of course it was also a bit of hell as Mycroft had to hide that he would have preferred so much to have Sherlock sleeping in _his_ bed, snuggled against him, allowing him to inhale his scent, stroke his naked back, kiss…

_Stop it already or do you want him to notice how depraved you are?!_

“Go- good night, Sherlock. I hope you'll sleep well. If you need anything, just say the word.”

Sherlock gave him another one of these breathtaking smiles while they were walking upstairs, where both Mycroft's bedroom and the guest room were located. Sherlock was holding the blanket for Crocker in one hand. “Thank you so much, Mycroft. For letting us stay and for accepting the dog.”

The giant animal had behaved flawlessly all evening – after the rather appalling kisses it had forced onto them. It had demanded to be let into the garden once and otherwise it had just been lying in the chair, dozing or looking at them, huffing out a grunt or yawning from time to time but otherwise all quiet.

“No problem. He's a better guest than I imagined.”

“And I?”

“You? You are not a _guest_. You are _[<strike>everything and I wish you would never go again</strike>]_ my brother and you're always welcome here. So is he.” He glanced at the dog that wagged its tail as if it had understood.

He gasped when he suddenly had an armful of baby brother, and he closed his arms around the slim waist and only just refrained from sniffing his brother's cheek. He did dare peck it for a millisecond and blushed at this horribly brave action.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said again, pulling back. “Sleep well.”

“Likewise. Does he snore?” He glanced at the dog.

“No. He just farts sometimes.”

“Oh.” Mycroft gulped but Sherlock just giggled.

“It's what dogs do. I don't mind. Good night.”

“Good night, little brother. Crocker.”

He watched Sherlock and the large dog go into their room before he retreated into his bedroom. He would take a shower and then try to sleep despite the fact that all he desired in this world was just a few rooms away, and it wasn’t the dog.

*****

_“God, yes, Sherlock, you feel so good, mmm, you smell so good, touch me there, oh I love you, I…” _Mycroft woke up abruptly, his heart hammering.

Was it a wonder? Hadn't such a dream been inevitable with Sherlock sleeping on the same floor?

His heart was racing, his cock was making his pyjama trousers look like an obscene tent and he could almost feel his brother's lips on his even though of course he had never kissed him on the mouth.

With a sigh he slumped into the pillows. What a cruel dream this had been. Wonderful and arousing and so full of love – just to wake up to the cold, cruel facts. Sherlock was his brother, not his lover, and even if he hadn't been – he would never want him.

Pulling the blanket close around him as if to seek comfort from it, he tried to return to sleep, hoping to dream of him again.

He had only just dozed off when he was woken up again – by the fact that his blanket was being pulled off of him. “What…? Sherlock?”

But of course it wasn't Sherlock. It was the dog. Blinking into the light Mycroft had made with his heart hammering once more, it was sitting next to the bed, right on Mycroft's blanket. “Are you crazy?” Mycroft hissed. “You already have one of my blankets!”

The dog gave him a stern look – and started to whine while standing up and walking to the door, turning its monstrous head to look at him once more, still making this unnerving noise. The message was clear – Mycroft should follow it.

“Who are you - Lassie? Someone fell into a well?” He closed his mouth abruptly when he remembered poor little Victor and even Doctor Watson, both having put into the same well to die by his sister. “My God… Is something wrong… with Sherlock?” he stupidly asked the dog as if it could answer him.

Crocker growled and barked quietly before running out of the room. Mycroft scrambled out of his bed at once, not bothering with shoes or a robe, following the large dog to the guest room his brother was sleeping in.

He stumbled into the dark room and made light, and then Crocker repeated his stunt and pulled at the blanket, removing it from Sherlock's body.

Mycroft's throat got completely dry at the sight. He had put some of his pyjamas onto a chair earlier that evening but Sherlock hadn't bothered with them. He was lying on his stomach, completely naked, and Mycroft's gaze was drawn to his bottom as if forced by a magnet. If Mycroft ever allowed himself to think about such trivia, he thought that his own backside wasn't that bad. It was still firm and it was small and appealingly shaped – he had been told by the few men he'd known intimately a long time ago. But Sherlock… His bum was incredibly plush and round and pale and perfect – and definitely not for him to stare at!

But what if something was wrong with his motionless lying brother? He made a step forward to look at his face – and tumbled backwards when he saw that Sherlock's eyes were open and watching him. He had not moved or given away in any other way that he was not sleeping anymore, and he was clearly not sick or injured or in any need of help.

“God, I'm sorry, the dog, it woke me up, I thought you were sick and… Oh God…” Mycroft turned and stalked out of the room, close to running. This was a nightmare! Lord, perhaps it really was?! Perhaps he was just dreaming again? And then his little toe made contact with an antique board in the hallway and he realised that he was, in fact, not dreaming…

Suppressing a pained cry, he scuttled into his bedroom, throwing himself onto the bed after switching off the light again. He was prepared to hear Sherlock hurry down the stairs after getting dressed, leaving the house of the pervert that was his older brother – staring at his naked arse in the middle of the night, close to drooling at the sight… It couldn’t get any worse…

And then he did hear steps – and a moment later he heard a knock at the door he had not fully closed. “Mycroft? Can I come in?”

“I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to…” He broke off, at a total loss for words.

He heard his brother entering the room and then he felt him sitting down on the edge of the bed, still not having said a further word. He hadn't made light, thankfully. Not that it really helped. He had given it all away. He had come into Sherlock's room because he had thought his brother might need him but instead of instantly checking on him, he had checked him out! How long had he been staring at his naked backside? A minute? Two? It was impossible to explain it away. Not even an idiot would have missed what was going on with him and Sherlock was a lot of things but he was certainly not an idiot…

“Where's the dog?” he asked as if that mattered right now.

When Sherlock answered, Mycroft could hear something in his voice he hadn't expected – a smile. “He jumped onto the bed and I doubt he will want to leave it again tonight. It's very comfortable.”

Dear God – had the cunning dog just planned this to occupy the bed like he had occupied the chair?! But dogs didn’t plan anything for God's sake!

And what was happening now – was Sherlock really lying down next to him? Sure, he didn’t have a bed anymore if he didn’t want to share it with the dog or throw the big thing out of it. But how could he want to be close to _him_ after what had just happened?

Mycroft winced when he felt Sherlock's hand on his back and he realised his brother wanted to comfort him. Not that he had ever done this. And comfort him for his sick feelings for him? He certainly didn’t deserve this. “I'm sorry. Now you know. I'm… sick.”

“Sick?” Sherlock sounded worried all at once.

“Yes! I shouldn’t… like you like this.” There – he had said it. But he was tired of hiding it. Now that Sherlock had caught him doing something so horrible, it didn’t make any sense anymore. But what if he had misjudged this?! What if Sherlock had just opened his eyes right before Mycroft had come closer to look into his face? He almost got sick at the thought of having given his secret away for nothing now.

But then Sherlock spoke and his jaw dropped. “No. You're not sick. I've known it for a while now. I mean… I was almost sure. Sure that you feel for me like I've been feeling for you for more than three years now.”

“What? How…? What?!” Mycroft sat up and leaned against the backrest of the bed. His eyes had got used to the darkness and there was some moonlight coming through the curtains so he could see Sherlock's face, not overly clearly but well enough to see that he was serious.

“Yes… I thought I was getting mad. When we prepared the fall…”

Mycroft recalled this time vividly. They had spent a lot of time together before Sherlock had disappeared, planning and scheming and being closer than they had ever been since growing up, and it had been so hard to let him go in the end. Those two long years had been such a challenge for him. They had been in contact sporadically over the phone but he had not seen him for all this time.

“It was the hardest thing for me,” Sherlock continued. “Harder than to let John believe I was dead. I tried to fight these feelings but I dreamt of you so many times while I was away. And then you watched me being beaten in Serbia…”

“You have no idea how hard it was not to kill this man,” Mycroft whispered. “I came there after desperately searching for you for almost a week.” Sherlock had just disappeared and Mycroft had been horribly anxious, fearing his brother was dead. “And then I had to sit there and watch you being hurt and I didn’t dare interfere because if I'd had…”

“…we might both have been killed,” Sherlock finished his sentence. “I know. I knew it back then. Still I thought… I don't know what I thought. I certainly didn’t think you were interested in me in any romantic way.”

“I was. For so long,” Mycroft admitted. “But I totally missed that you had started to feel the same.”

“Well, I'd missed it for years then! But in Sherrinford… I saw it in your eyes. Or I thought I'd seen it. I still wasn't sure…”

Holmeses and sentiment. A great combination… “You've reached out to me afterwards,” Mycroft said slowly. “Hoping… things would get clear?”

“Yes. And they did. I was sure before I came here today. Well, yesterday to be precise.”

It was three in the morning now. And he recalled some of the things Sherlock had told him. About John looking for a wife – to tell him he wasn't interested in him or vice versa. And that description…

“You think I'm handsome?” he blurted. He was tall for sure and yes, his hair was definitely dark. But handsome?

“Of course you are! You have such beautiful eyes and I love your nose and your mouth… I've been dreaming of it so many times. You have such gorgeous hands and this fur that's sometimes visible above your collar… Your legs are so long and slim and…”

Mycroft would have certainly thought at this point that he definitely had to be dreaming if his poor toe wouldn’t have been hurting so much…

And then they both winced when they heard heavy steps, and then Crocker was standing in the doorframe and huffed out a low whouuff.

“This dog…” Mycroft mumbled.

“Yeah. I woke up when he opened the door and left the room,” Sherlock admitted.

“But you stayed where you were?”

“Um, yes. I wanted to know what would happen. I had the strange feeling he would get you into my room.”

“And then you caught me staring at your… bottom.”

“I did. And I was so excited…”

The dog sat down and in the pale light Mycroft was sure it was grinning. Then it impatiently shook its mighty head and growled.

“What does he want now?” Mycroft mumbled.

“I think he wants us to kiss.”

“Yes?” Mycroft breathed. “You really think so?”

“Yes. I really do.”

Inch by inch the two brothers' faces moved towards each other and then Mycroft made a tiny noise of absolute delight when his lips touched the marvellous mouth of his brother for the very first time. Sherlock gasped and parted his lips for him, and then Mycroft's tongue was carefully searching for its counterpart and they both more or less whined when their tongues met for the first breath-taking, wonderfully messy kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like a fluffy and romantic ending, you can stop reading here. If you are in for some blowjob fun, stay tuned for the bonus scene :)


	6. Love, Pure And Simple

It was hard to believe this was really happening. Finally happening… After years and years of secret glances at Mycroft's lips when he was speaking, at his alluring little bum when he was moving, trying to pretend nothing had changed, being extra snarky to hide what he was feeling – this was a miracle.

His heart had stopped for a moment when they had been looking at one another in this horrible situation in Sherrinford. And hadn't Sherlock provoked it? He had known very soon what Eurus would demand from him and that he would either kill himself than either of his two companions. He wouldn’t kill his best friend, a young father of a child that had already lost its mother, no matter how troubled their relationship had recently been. And of course he wouldn’t kill his brother, the man who had always been there for him indeed, not always in a very pleasant way, but Sherlock had never doubted his affection for him – apart from the first moment when Mycroft had told him he would go undercover in Eastern Europe like he had told him not to do before he had killed Magnussen. But then it had become clear to him very quickly that his brother had a plan. He wouldn’t let him die.

And above all he was the man he had secretly loved for years now so he would of course not fire at him.

But he had let him believe he would for some time, and he seen how much Mycroft cared for him during these minutes, and he had started to believe what he had hardly dared suspect before – that Mycroft loved him in the same forbidden way that Sherlock loved him.

But he had still not dared make a move on him when they had met several times afterwards. It had been nice and peaceful and he had not missed how Mycroft had sometimes looked at him – but that still didn’t have to mean he wanted to pursue a relationship with him. A relationship that would be completely forbidden and risky; nobody would ever be allowed to learn about it.

Weeks had gone by, and Sherlock had more and more realised that he had to try it in some way. What if Mycroft very well wanted to be with him, to make love to him, to be his lover, and was just convinced Sherlock would never reciprocate his feelings? Mycroft had clearly not seen in Sherlock's eyes in Sherrinford what Sherlock had seen in his. Hadn't they wasted enough time then?

But Sherlock hadn't had a plan. He had known he just couldn’t tell his brother straight away that he wanted him, knowing he wouldn't be able to cope with being rejected for reasons like it being against the law and immoral and wrong and whatnot.

What then? He had tried to tell Mycroft indirectly, going even so far to let him know about his 'type' of man, being a description of him. But Mycroft hadn't got it. He had completely missed the fact that Sherlock was trying to flirt with him.

And now, thanks to Crocker, Mycroft was lying under him, his hands on Sherlock's naked body, still cautious, still shy, but they were kissing and Sherlock could feel his brother's arousal through the thin fabric of his expensive pyjamas and his heart was bursting with love and gratitude that a cupid on four large paws had managed to bring them together. And now Sherlock would never let his brother go again.

“You're mine now, Mycroft,” he mumbled against the other man's kiss-puffy lips.

“All yours,” Mycroft immediately assured him.

Sherlock closed his hand around the large bulge in the silky pants. “That's mine, too.”

Mycroft groaned. “Yes,” he said in a strained voice. “Are you sure it's not too soon for this?”

“Haven't we really waited long enough?” He knew Mycroft had a point. And they should probably not go all the way tonight. But he was afraid that if they postponed it, Mycroft would get cold feet and convince himself he couldn’t do this, and Sherlock wouldn’t risk this. He wanted to show his brother how much he wanted him.

“True. But… the dog…”

Sherlock smiled. “He's left the room as soon we started kissing. His mission is done.” He could very well imagine where Crocker was now – lying on the guest bed with a smug face, congratulating himself. Well, he had every right to do so.

“What is he?”

“An angel sent from God?” Sherlock asked with a giggle. “He's a dog, Mycroft. A dog that might be smarter than we are...”

“Amazing…”

It really was. But now Sherlock didn’t want to talk about Crocker. Actually he didn’t want to talk at all.

*****

Nothing that felt so good could be wrong. Eyes so full of adoration couldn’t lie. If the dog had really been sent from heaven to help them along like Sherlock had joked or not, Mycroft certainly felt as if he was in heaven now.

Sherlock had pushed him back into the pillows when he had wanted to get up and caress him, and he had let him have his own way. And this way consisted of kissing his now bare chest, probingly licking his nipples, nibble at his collarbone – Sherlock was thoroughly exploring him and it felt wonderful.

His mind might have told him to take things slower, to talk about it and point out the dangers of an incestuous affair, but his heart, and yes, his cock, told him that would just have been a waste of time.

Sherlock wasn’t a fool. And he had started having these feelings for him years ago. He had to know what was at stake if it came out so it couldn’t. They would make it work together. Mycroft's house would be the safe haven for their love and their sexuality, a sexuality that had, in Mycroft's case, abruptly woken up at his brother's kisses and touches and closeness and that was now reaching peaks he had never known when Sherlock's hand stroked up and down his almost achingly erect penis, also freed from every annoying fabric.

Mycroft was so far gone already that he couldn’t have protested if he had wanted to, and after all those years of unhappy longing and feeling guilty for wanting his brother in ways the law had very strict views about he couldn’t find it in himself to continue having any bad feelings about it anymore. It was what Sherlock wanted, so much was sure, and in the end all that Mycroft had ever wanted was to see his brother safe and happy, and he was clearly happy now when he closed his wonderful lips around the pink, dripping head of Mycroft's member, and there was no place he could ever be safer at than alone with Mycroft in his secure and homely house, in his bed, protected by Mycroft's love and above all a dog that would probably love to rip a leg or two out of anyone who was crazy enough to break in, and no matter how shocked Mycroft had been at the size of the dog in the beginning – now he was grateful to know it at his brother's side when _he_ couldn’t be there.

And then Sherlock started sucking him in earnest, clearly doing it for the very first time but far from being clumsy, and every coherent thought Mycroft might still have been able to have drifted away at the experience of the best and most exciting feeling he'd ever had.

*****

Sherlock was fully concentrated on his task – catapulting his brother's arousal into the stratosphere. He hoped he was doing it right, having nothing more than the memory of some porn films he had secretly watched and the fantasies he had engaged in. He was using his hand to firmly stroke up and down the long, thick shaft and did his best to coordinate his sucking and licking movements with this.

He had dreamt about doing this ever since he had realised that he had not only started to like his brother better again during the course of preparing the dismantling of Moriarty's web but had developed feelings for him that were more than a disturbing little crush.

In these two long years when he hadn't seen him, he had fantasised of dropping to his knees as soon as he was back in London, nuzzling his face against his brother's crotch, taking out his enormous cock and worshipping it to the sound of Mycroft's surprised and pleased gasps.

Of course it had been very different. Mycroft himself had freed him in Serbia and then he had been his usual efficient and cool self and they had never been alone with each other for long and of course – it had simply been out of the question. If he just had known about Mycroft's feelings for him what he knew now… But it made no sense to whine about missed opportunities. They were here now, together, naked, in the act, and Sherlock would make up for all the time they had wasted with bickering and nastiness and hiding what they actually felt for each other.

And he had already started, and he was enjoying himself tremendously. He loved having his brother at his mercy like this, aroused beyond words and whimpering when Sherlock did certain things, like licking his frenulum or weighing his balls in one hand or licking under his foreskin or into his slit... Mycroft had always been so in control, and the scent Sherlock had associated with him had been a mixture of tea, expensive wool, fine eau de cologne and superiority. But now he savoured the taste and scent of musk and sex, of clean skin and heavy excitement. Sherlock liked worshipping him like this so much that he knew he could come just by doing this. But in the end his efforts pushed Mycroft over the edge before this could happen.

Salty liquid splashed into his mouth; he had felt it coming and Mycroft had stammered a warning that he had of course ignored. He wanted the proof of his brother's desire for him, wanted his essence to become a part of him, and he loved it. As messy and somewhat icky it had looked on video – the reality was appealing and amazing, and Sherlock greedily swallowed everything his brother was spilling into his mouth.

"Come to me, brother mine," Mycroft croaked when he had regained the power of speech sufficiently enough, and Sherlock didn't hesitate but placed himself over Mycroft's face, dipping his leaking cock into the older man's waiting mouth, and he groaned in pleasure when he devoured him with excellent skill and a hunger for him that was impossible to miss.

Sherlock wasn't allowed to enjoy his brother's heavenly sucking movements for very long though; performing oral services on him had excited him way too much already and Mycroft's devilish tongue finished him off way too soon. He followed Mycroft's example and fed him his semen, making himself a part of him beyond their relation, and in the end he tumbled to Mycroft's side to being able to rest his head on his hairy, sweat-covered chest.

"That was wonderful," Mycroft whispered, pressing him close.

"No regrets, brother mine?" He just had to ask.

"None. You?"

"Only that we didn't do this much sooner!"

Mycroft smiled. "You have a point. But who knows. Perhaps we wouldn't have been ready for it earlier."

"I'm so ready now."

"So am I, little brother. Oh. Hello, Crocker." Mycroft pulled the blanket over them and Sherlock giggled.

"Thank you, Crocker."

The dog, standing in the door like he had before, grinned, definitely grinned, and then turned and walked away once more, oozing smugness and satisfaction.

"He can't have been sent from heaven," Mycroft mumbled. "He couldn't have just looked that naughtily otherwise."

Sherlock grinned. "He knows he did a great job."

"That he did. And I will make sure he gets the biggest chew bone any dog has ever seen for being such an amazing friend. Without him… I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock's heart stopped for a moment. He looked up to his brother. "I love you, too."

They kissed and Sherlock knew he would never get enough of this.

It had needed a huge dog to make them get together. But Sherlock assumed there were worse matchmakers in the world. Crocker would certainly get lots of huge chew bones from him, too. And he smirked to himself when he thought that Crocker had done that for him first…

"If we had champagne, I would toast to this amazing dog," Mycroft said.

"Tomorrow."

"Yes. This is just the first of many nights, isn't it?"

"You'll never get rid of me again, Mycroft. Crocker wouldn't have it."

"And who can argue with him!"

"Exactly." And Sherlock kissed his big brother once more, and he couldn't wait for all the love and all the love-making to happen. He was happy, Mycroft was happy, and Crocker was happy. Sometimes life was just great.

*** End ***


End file.
